Unrelenting Ash
by Seventeen Commanders
Summary: When corprus monsters attack the wharfs of Ebonheart, a young Nord Legionnaire is framed for the attack. Determined to prove his innocence and uncover the extent of Sixth House corruption in the Legion, he finds his only allies are a rag-tag group of criminals, two clueless mages, and a Temple initiate that knows more than she lets on.
1. Arrival

"Looks like a there's a prison ship passing through."

Frenrik glanced over at his companion, a fellow Nord named Norring, as the two legionnaires patrolled the docks of Ebonheart. They'd been on duty for hours, and it didn't surprise the younger Nord that his partner was desperate to find something interesting about the day. After all, the usual rabble of moody Dunmeri and slimy Imperial merchants offered very little of interest after days of long patrols and few drinks.

"Just looks like another trading ship to me," said Frenrik, looking out at the brown blip Norring was pointing at out on the horizon.

"Nah, that ship there is heading towards Seyda Neen. Nothing to trade out there," said Norring, tracing an invisible path between the ship and its heading, "Besides, stay here long enough and you'll get used to the shipping schedules. Imperials run like clockwork."

"Are they are regular as your trips to the Six Fishes after a shipment of mead comes in?" asked Frenrik, who was only answered with laughter from his companion.

Frenrik shook his head and pulled off his heavy helmet to rub the sweat off his brow. His thick, blond hair stuck to his sweaty face, and he couldn't help but pray to Ysmir that he'd be sent back home to Skyrim before dying of heat stroke. The day was a scorcher, and the heavy Legion uniform certainly didn't make it any more enjoyable. From afar, at least, he could pass for the ideal legionnaire: he was tall and well-built, and his armor didn't even have a dent in it. A steel sword hung loosely from his side, though it was more for show than for actual anticipation of combat; his post at Ebonheart was proving to be more about endurance than real soldiering.

The land of the Dunmer was reputed to be mysterious and strange, but it was impossible to tell that from the stone castle towering over the harbor. The hard, cold edges of both the castle and the docks themselves betrayed their Imperial origins far more than the impressive dragon statue sitting squarely in front of the fortress entrance. A few warehouses lined the docking district bearing the East Imperial Trading Company logo, one of the few major Imperial businesses in all of Morrowind that didn't involve skooma. Frenrik had seen enough during his few short weeks in Morrowind call that into question on a good day.

"Cyril, dear, you're going to walk off the—" a shrill high-elf broke through the monotony of Ebonheart's wharf, not too far down from where the legionnaires stood guard. The warning came a few seconds too late, and a loud splash interrupted her mid-sentence.

It didn't take long for Frenrik to locate the obvious signs of distress, as a now-soaking wet Altmer man was struggling to pull himself back up onto dry land. With a chuckle and a shake of his head, Frenrik pulled his helmet back on and pushed his way through the busy docks to offer his assistance. Norring was content to stay back and bellow with laughter instead.

Saving the day was simple enough; while the High Elf woman was too scrawny to pull her partner out of the water, Frenrik could manage it with one hand. Rather than thank him, however, the two elves merely gave the Nord an awkward nod, then fussed over each other like he wasn't even there. Frenrik wasn't surprised—if anything, they were a step up from the local Dunmeri, who probably would have insulted him for the trouble.

"Somehow I'm not so excited about seeing you wander around ruins with lava running through them," said the woman, pulling a handkerchief out of her pocket to dry off the other elf's face, "No wonder the Guild hasn't let you near Vvardenfell for nearly fifteen years."

"Seeing as those fifteen years have been spent with you, I'm glad they didn't," said the mer, running a hand through her red hair and giving her a quick kiss on the cheek.

It was clear that the couple were mages at a glance, with the traditional staves dutifully strapped to their backs and potions hanging from their belts. The guild mentioned obviously had to be the Mages Guild, and that's all he needed to know about them. Mages and magic never led to good things, as far as the Skyrim native was concerned, and the more distance between him and them, the better.

Not that they noticed his discomfort, of course.

"The sweet nothings might work better when you don't smell like slaughterfish," continued the woman with a half-smile, though all it did was convince her partner to shower her in more smooches. If the two had any illusion of being stereotypical snotty High Elves, that was evaporating along with the seawater that drenched her lover's robes.

"Ah—Cyril! Stop! People are staring," said the woman as Frenrik decided to turn to leave, giving the two a quick nod as he did so, "Oh, Cyril, don't tell me that you dropped that map…"

He doubted that anyone was actually taking active interest in pair, but even he was surprised at throng that had developed on docks while he wasn't paying attention. Dunmer and beast folk both scurried past them, moving shipments and ferrying other travelers to wherever they needed to go. While Ebonheart was normally a sleepy port town at best, several large trading vessels had now docked at the same time, with many Redguard and Nord sailors now working and intermingling with the Morrowind natives.

Between the dock workers were legionnaires, weaving this way and that through the throng and occasionally glancing at a suspect barrel or package. Frenrik had no doubt that contraband was getting through regardless, though; there simply couldn't be enough eyes between the entire Legion to look closely at everything in the port today, let alone the handful that were patrolling the docks. He'd only been stationed at Ebonheart for a few weeks—not long enough to recognize more than a handful of the legionnaires currently on the docks. More surprisingly, Norring had vanished from sight.

The sun was high and beat down on everyone in the Imperial outpost, man and mer alike. With a conglomeration of dozens of people came a conglomeration of dozens of smells, it looked like the two high elves looked like they were about to swoon. A light breeze was but a small relief to the sweltering horde, and Frenrik couldn't help but wish for the thousandth time that he was back in his native Skyrim.

"Watch where you're going, s'wit!" snarled a woman that he pushed a little too hard on his way down the docks. At first he couldn't tell she was a Dark Elf; she was buried under a set of thick brown robes, with a heavy hood covering most of her face. It was the piercing red eyes that shot up at him that told him all he needed to know—there was a distinct _look_ that the natives of Morrowind seemed to have collectively mastered when it came to addressing outlanders.

She looked like she was about to land a few more scathing comments, but there was something in the water that caught her eye just behind him. Her eyes widened and she gasped, so Frenrik turned quickly to see what the problem was. At first he thought she was looking at a paper floating in the water, but he couldn't figure out why that would scare someone. For a moment he even wondered if the disintegrating paper was the map that the High Elf couple mentioned earlier, but then he realized that there was something under the floating map that was _moving_. Almost mistakable for a mere ripple, closer observation made him realize that it was something large around just beneath the surface. It wasn't just one thing either—the docks were surrounded.

He didn't have long to ponder it. A pale, deformed hand shot up out of the water and grabbed at one of Frenrik's boots. With a swift kick, he knocked whatever it was back into the water, though it was only a momentarily setback to whatever the thing was. It grasped the edge of the stone pier and pulled itself out of the water.

It was the smell that hit him first, some combination of living and dead flesh that combined together to make a sickening sweet stench that even the toughest warrior would have to recoil from. It was covered in abnormal, lumpy growths with open sores were the flesh hadn't grown fast enough to contain the expanding organs and muscles underneath it. The humanoid monster was much shorter than the Nord, though it apparently had trouble staying upright as it swayed back and forth.

It had clearly been a living person at one point or another, though it was too far gone to figure out what gender or race it had been. Frenrik's first thoughts were of the draugr of his homeland, but that didn't quite describe the monster that shambled to its feet before him. Despite having rotting, deathly pale flesh and film-covered eyes, this thing was still alive to some degree. Every movement pained it, making it look like it was eternally silently screaming. But even so, it continued to force itself forward, as if it couldn't correlate the source of its misery and its very own actions.

It lunged at the addled legionnaire, but Frenrik drew his sword and swung at his attacker. Steel met flesh, though the monster hardly bore more than slight scratch from the fierce attack. It stumbled back, but Frenrik didn't stop to think before launching into an all-out assault. Fueled by pure adrenaline, he hacked away without restraint. The monster's head hit the pier with a heavy thud, then rolled into back into the depths that it had originally emerged from. _Bosmer_ , he realized as he watch it fall, catching a glimpse of pointy ears, _this thing used to be a Bosmer…_

He didn't have long to think about the matter. While he had been dispatching the former elf, dozens of others like it had climbed on and continued to pull themselves onto the docks and shores of Ebonheart. Some looked like they were being consumed by their tumorous growths, others like seemed to be perfectly normal dark elves—if it was normal to be missing the upper halves of their faces.

"Corprus stalkers!" he heard someone shriek, and his blood ran cold. He'd only heard scant whispers about the dreaded Vvardenfall disease before now, but even the young Nord knew that there was no cure for it in all of Tamriel.

The Dunmer woman meanwhile had wasted no time in fending for herself throwing spells and punches in equal measure. There wasn't time for words or strategy between the man and elf, but served instinct the pair well. In wordless agreement, they fell into a pattern where she would stun the monsters with an array of explosions and summoned lightning, and he would hack away before the fiends could recover. The only communication between the two were Frenrik's thunderous battle cry and the Dunmer's incantations.

The Dunmer was hardly the only person throwing spells about. Most of the civilians of the docks had fled at the first signs of terror, but the mage couple from earlier had stood their ground instead. One of them—Frenrik didn't know which one—had summoned some sort of lizard-like daedra to tear apart the corprus monsters with powerful fangs and talons, and both Altmer were flinging spells from their staves at any enemy that dared approach. It chilled Frenrik's blood to be surrounded by so much magic, but he could hardly complain when it was the only thing keeping them from being overwhelmed, like it or not.

But it wasn't enough. The four fighters were gradually pushed together and surrounded on all sides, and even the best warriors in the Companions back home couldn't have withstood the seemingly endless onslaught before them. To their credit, he knew that he and the mages weren't fighting alone, as he could hear other legionnaires clashing with the horde elsewhere, even if the docks themselves were too thick with monsters and smoke to determine where the fighting was taking place. It seemed impossible, but even more of the cursed creatures continued to climb up from the depths, and it was clear that the four were going to be overwhelmed unless help came quickly.

A lumbering giant amongst the corprus stalkers was readily advancing on them, and Frenrik's steel sword deflected off of it like the monster of made of solid rock. In life, it must have been an impressive orc, but now it was a monolith of living death. It gurgled at him—inhumane sounds emitting from a fat, tumorous face that seemed to contort itself in all the wrong ways. For a moment Frenrik thought he injured the monstrosity with a particularly heavy blow, as flesh was cleaved from bones, and a terrible stench erupted forth from the wound. To his horror Frenrik realized that the corprus stalker was already rapidly healing itself before him. Not that it would have mattered, as a second blow broke the blade of his sword clean off, and it went flying into the dark waters of Ebonheart.

Whether it was Nord strength or Nord stupidity that made him think it was a brilliant plan to pummel the monstrosity with his fists, Frenrik didn't know. He slugged the former person right in the jaw, where squishy, spongy skin gave clear way to a gnarled mess of bone and teeth. A wicked splintering sound left the thing's face further distorted, but the corprus monster advanced like nothing had even happened.

A quick glance at the others confirmed that they were having just as much trouble handling the horde. The daedra had long since disappeared from the Altmers' side, and is was easy to tell from the terror on their faces that neither of the two had seen or expected like this before in their lives. The Dunmer woman was slightly better off, for what it was worth, but he knew once her mana was drained, they'd all be in hot water.

She caught his eye—or, more likely, the menace towering over him—and yelled at him to hit the ground. He dived into the stone docks without a second thought, as the woman pulled out a scroll and cast its contents at the corprus beasts with everything she had. He couldn't see it from where he landed, but he could feel the waves of fire as they scorched the very air above him, causing the sea water to hiss and steam as multitudes of monsters were set aflame. A resounding explosion only confirmed what the contents of the scroll had been.

Frenrik could feel someone trying to pull him to his feet, and he stumbled to his feet at quickly as he could. The stench of burning flesh hit him like a blizzard in Winterhold, nearly making the Nord double over in shock. The battle was clearly not over, however, as even though the wharf had been temporarily cleared, the beasts were still stirring and would likely continue their mindless onslaught.

The Dunmer had wasted no time in shoving other scrolls into the hands of Frenrik and their newfound Altmer allies; before he could even ask what they were for, having never used a spell scroll in his life, she gave them one word of instruction:

"Pray."


	2. Betrayal

The Dunmer woman disappeared into a shimmering blue light, and the two Altmer were quick to follow. Frenrik knew enough about intervention and teleportation spells to figure that the Dunmer had given them some variation of one of them. The magic imbued in the thick paper licked at his fingers, begging to be used, but Frenrik himself was loathe to activate the precious last resort.

He was a Nord—if he was going to flee like a milk-drinker, it wasn't going to be by using damned magic. He'd sooner jump in the Sea of Ghosts in mid-Frostfall.

Now without any backup or weapon whatsoever, Frenrik had to improvise before the corprus stalkers recovered completely from the magical firestorm that decimated the docks only moments before. The scorched stone was still warm, steaming as the calm sea waves continued to ebb and flow independent of the ongoing topside horrors. Frenrik's eyes watered from smoke of smoldering remains of crates and barrels, but he forced himself to concentrate on the narrow strip of stone separating him from the city of Ebonheart.

From what he could tell, the men and women at the other end of the pier had erected temporary barriers of whatever the guard and citizens could grab a hold of—mostly cargo that was originally intended to go to the warehouses, but Frenrik could also make out pots, benches, pillows, and someone had even managed to wheel out a giant brass Dwemer clog from somewhere unknown. Frenrik couldn't help but be a little impressed at what was surely no easy feat.

Either from sheer stupidity or inability, the infected men and mer couldn't climb over the hasty barricades, which the other legionnaires were using to their advantage. Archers along the towers of the docks picked off the worst of the rabble with relative ease, and even a few commoners were able to take out a few from the rooftops with well-aimed rocks. From the ground, swords and spears defended any and all gaps in the barriers, but there was only one man openly fighting the monsters from outside safety. Even from afar, Frenrik knew the Imperial Legion lord from the silver glint of his armor: Varus Vantinius, the Knight of the Imperial Dragon, famous across Tamriel for his ingenuity and strength in battle. It was hard not to be impressed at the famous knight cut through corpus stalkers like butter.

Even though the distance from the end of the dock to safety was only half a dozen meters at the most, too many monsters still remained between him and the barrier to force his way through them all unarmed. Thinking fast, Frenrik looked to the water, which in itself wasn't was best plan—no, he had no idea how many of those _things_ still lurked beneath the murky waters, and no water walking potions to help him on his way. It was evident, however, that the monsters had stopped emerging from the water; perhaps the chaos was nearing an end.

Instead, he turned his attention to the ships. The local dunmeri transportation had long since pulled out of port, but the two Imperial trading vessels were still anchored in place despite the screams of angry sailors and terrified captains. The closest ship was just a few feet away from him, with only two mobile corprus sufferers between him and easy access to the deck.

He knew from a glance that it was a Nordic vessel, as the long length and low deck were key features of his home region's design. Peeling green paint at the bow proudly read _Shor's Fury_ in big, blocky letters, with a carving too weathered to make out the original shape of the figurehead. But more importantly, the ship was a longboat—if he could jump onto it, he could make it down a good distance to the warehouses without having to face significant danger. Some of the corprus monsters had managed to climb aboard, but they were slow and wandered aimlessly about the dock. The crew had made itself scarce, though Frenrik prayed to Talos that casualties weren't the main cause.

Refusing to miss an opportunity, Frenrik broke into a mad dash past the two obese stalkers before they had any chance to react to the furious Nord. He landed with both feet firm on the deck, then continued his relentless bolt down the wooden deck. At first he did well by jumping over the abandoned crates and dodging the lingering zombie-like creatures in his path, but the perils of ships were an unknown to him. His foot caught itself in a stray piece of rope, and Frenrik had lost his balance and smashed into a barrel before he could even react. It exploded into splinters on impact with the heavily armored legionnaire.

However, the misstep wasn't without its merits. As Frenrik took a moment to reorient himself, he took in the situation on the pier opposite from the one where he just came. To his relief, he caught sight of his partner, who had previously been hidden behind the bulk of _Shor's Fury_. Norring, in all his Nord glory, was smashing through the remaining monsters with a massive steel war hammer, apparently having had much better luck with his weapon than Frenrik had with his own in the battle. With every strike, he bellowed with laughter and screamed insults and challenges incoherently, as if the corprus stalkers could have understand him anyway. Blue war paint peeled off and smeared from the sweat on Norring's face; Frenrik's wouldn't have been surprised if the man had kept up the onslaught from the very moment the corprus monsters crawled out of the depths.

Anyone else might have been disquieted by seeing a friend and drinking buddy become a bloodthirsty beast, but Frenrik only welled up with a fierce respect and pride for his countryman. Norring was roughly fifteen years Frenrik's senior, and he had had more than enough time to master the heavy weapon he swung with ease at his foes. The tough flesh that had given Frenrik so much trouble before instantly caved to Norring's hammer, and he flattened skulls seemingly effortlessly. Furthermore, it wasn't Legion-taught skill that Norring wrought on his enemies—no, the man had joined the Legion only a month or two before Frenrik had. This display of prowess, Frenrik knew, was the unbridled combat from the heart of Skyrim. Norring didn't even need to worry about his flank, or so it seemed; one swing could knock back the toughest bastard along them if they dared approached this dealer of death.

Grabbing a long, jagged piece of wood from the barrel he had destroyed to make for a makeshift weapon, Frenrik answered Norring's battle cries with one of his own. He leapt over the side of the ship onto the deck, whacking one of the disgusting shamblers square in the back of the skull, knocking the stunned monster into the water. Frenrik didn't stop to see if the thing would reemerge from the depths, instead opting to close the distance between him and safety while surprise was still on his side.

He hadn't noticed there was a second person fighting alongside Norring, though that was more the fault of the person's chameleon spell than Frenrik's own oversight. The spell was wearing off, evidently, so by the time Frenrik was close, he could clearly see whoever it was without much difficulty. It was a Breton, Frenrik could tell from a glance, who also wore the red and gold armor of a high ranking individual. While Frenrik couldn't place his superior's name, it was clear that the Breton was another legionnaire with serious combat expertise under his belt.

While he had seen more than enough magic today than he had ever wanted to see in his entire like, the Breton's strategy was wholly different from the immense explosions cast earlier in the battle. Armed with a shortsword and small shield, the Breton slipped between his lumbering foes with unsettlingly grace, then threw himself at whatever weaknesses he could spot. Magic came into play when the monsters lurched around to retaliate. The Breton's gauntlets would faintly grow, and from there all it took was a single touch before the corprus stalker recoiled away in unadulterated terror. As Frenrik watched, the Breton nodded in the young Nord's direction once before reinforcing the faded chameleon spell—in only took one blink for him to disappear without a trace from Frenrik's vision.

It was just as well, as Norring had somehow managed to take off more than he could chew with the remaining corprus stalkers. Being the loudest and most visible warrior left on the docks may as well have painted a bullseye on the older Nord's face rather than his Skyrim-style war paint; though to his credit, it looked like Norring welcomed the challenge with zeal. In either case, the seaside stalkers were funneling into a crowd in front of him, which kept him from watching his rear. It might not have been a problem if Frenrik had been just a bit further up the ship when he jumped onto the pier, but as it was, the stalkers now formed a solid wall between him and his ally. As Frenrik watched in horror, a corprus stalker lunged at Norring from behind before the man could defend himself.

Akatosh must have been with the both of them at that moment, as a small opening between the stalkers opened up in the crowd between him and Norring. Without thinking twice, he gripped his wooden weapon and ran mad for the momentary opportunity. Once more he found himself diving into the stone wharf of Ebonheart, but instead of an explosion, it was the whistling of Norring's war hammer that he could hear swinging just inches from his head. Rolling to his feet with the shattered plank in hand, Frenrik didn't even pause before leaping onto the monster that was now clawing and biting Norring.

The sharp end of the splintered wood went straight into the stalker's gooey, cloudy eyes with an audible squishing sound. The pure momentum of Frenrik's leap knocked both man and monster over, and with all the strength he could muster, Frenrik pushed the makeshift weapon through the monster's skull. Cackling could be heard from within the thing's head, but Frenrik didn't dare guess at whether or not it was from the skull or the wood shattering under pressure. Whatever the case, the monster let out one final gurgle of agony before its last moments were spent twitching under the Nord's weight.

"Ha! So you do know how to kill more than mudcrabs, Battleborn!" said Norring, glancing back from his own struggles to assess his comrade's grim kill.

"And I plan to kill many more before Sovngarde!" said Frenrik with a grin, kicking another approaching corprus monster over the side of the pier and into the water. "But now, fall back to shore—I don't want you knocking me into the water with that oversized excuse for a hammer before I've had a chance to prove myself!"

"Har! Who are you to give orders, boy?" said Norring as he crushed yet another enemy with ease.

"Someone not keen on swimming while those things lurk the depths. C'mon!" said Frenrik.

With a mighty roar, Norring barreled into the remaining corprus monsters, swinging his weapon ferociously. It was a risky gamble, even for the musclebound legionnaire; numbers could best even the strongest warrior in combat. Nonetheless, the gamble paid off, as several corprus stalkers were crushed underneath the mighty war hammer, and those that survived were knocked off the pier into the cold depths. Frenrik couldn't decide whether the attack was a legitimate strategy or if Norring was simply showing off.

The end result was the same in either case. The pair made their way down the weathered stone dock, which was now covered in corpses and rotting bits and pieces of flesh. The stench was unbearable, and it only grew as they drew closer and closer to the blockade by the warehouses. It was clear that the remaining forces of legionnaires and sell-swords had gained the upper hand in their fortified position, as more of the Legion's elite climbed over the barricade to join the fray.

The Breton commander, whoever he was, reappeared from thin air beside them. He was about a foot shorter than either of the two Nord men, and his big brown eyes had a mischievous glint to them. Even covered in dirt and sweat, the Breton had a lordly look to him that shone through with an uncanny calmness. In any other situation, he may have even been considered handsome. Up close, it was hard to believe that someone so delicate looking could have sent any stalkers to their death without sustaining serious injury, but Frenrik had already seen the Breton's lethalness firsthand and knew otherwise.

"You there—" said the Breton, looking directly at Frenrik as they ran, "You're the boy transferred in from Bruma, yes?" He didn't give Frenrik time to do anything but nod before continuing. "Thought so. You and Norring are due for a promotion after this, mark my words. And since I can tell from the look on your face that you have no idea who you're speaking to, I am Alodie Jes, Knight Bachelor. –Hold, what have we here?"

The trio stopped to watch what the remaining corprus stalkers were doing. Unlike the aimless wanderers from before, these handful left were swarming around something, seemingly oblivious to the arrows, axes, and blades mercilessly cutting down their numbers. As more fell, it became clear that the horde was trying to get at a crate, probably one that had been unceremoniously dropped in all of the confusion. Even so, Frenrik could have sworn that there was something evil emanating from the box. It was a dread in his gut that vanished when he tried to concentrate on it, sort of like waking from a terrible dream that one cannot remember.

It was then that Frenrik realized that the scroll that the Dunmer had given him was still in his hand, albeit it crushed from his firm grip. The magic burned at him now, as if it had taken a life of its own and was demanding to be used. Frenrik knew at this point that Alodie was ordering him and Norring into battle, and he was dimly aware of shouts and cheers of the soldiers on the other dock as they finally cleaved down the last monster, but Frenrik could barely hear them through the bizarre sensations that he was feeling.

Reality was rudely thrust upon him as Norring tore off the lid of the crate, though whether it was on orders or because of mere curiosity, Frenrik did not know. Snapping back to attention, Frenrik approached his friend and the crate, eager to discover what could draw a mindless beasts' attention and manipulate his own emotions. The immediate string of swears from Norring didn't prepare him for what they found. The box was filled to the brim with little red statuettes like looked almost daedric in origin. Each statuette varied in design, but it was evident that they weren't depicting men or mer; if they were, it was some twisted variant that shouldn't exist. There was one thing all had in common, nonetheless: growing red eyes.

Others were now beginning to gather around the crate, most notably the famous Varus Vantinius. Norring picked one of the statues up and growled while inspecting it, but something else count Frenrik's attention. Between the statues and the side of the crate was a crumbled piece of paper. Fishing it out, though careful not to brush against one of the pieces of disturbing cargo, Frenrik could quickly see that it was some sort of shipping order. What he read made almost him drop the paper in shock.

The four names who had apparently ordered the package were very familiar.

They were all of fellow legionnaires: Norring, Furius Acilius, Honthjolf… and his very own, Frenrik Battleborn. Scribbled on the top of the paper was a message that only added to the disturbing nature of the crate and the letter. Written in a blood red ink were the words: _Blight the Legion, Blight the Empire, Blight the Divines._

"What is the meaning of this?" yelled Frenrik, the fury boiling anew in his veins. The letter was yanked out of his hands by Vantinius, whose serious face didn't reveal what he made of the letter. His words, however, did. Frenrik didn't know the other two named legionnaires by sight, but a quick glance around the crowd made him realize that almost everyone from the Fort Hawkmoth garrison was present. Whatever this letter meant, it was going to be dealt with in front of everyone Frenrik knew in the entire country of Morrowind.

"The implications of this letter are very clear," said the legendary soldier after a long pause, "As much as it pains me to believe any of our brothers could commit such a heinous act. Could it be forgery? Perhaps. It's convenient, if nothing else. But good men died today, and no one in this garrison can afford the risk if this paper speaks true."

The famed warrior drew his sword and pointed it at Frenrik and Norring. There was an audible gasp from the onlookers.

"By the power of the Empire, I place Frenrik, Honthjolf, Furius, and Norring under arrest for suspected treason."


	3. Survival

The immediate reaction from the crowd was of both shock and disbelief. As the late Last Seed sun beat down on all in the Dragon Square, Frenrik's mind immediately went to the multitude of swords, spears, and spells that were clutched by his comrades. The hot blood of battle still boiled strong in the Legion's men. A bloodbath would be inevitable if any of the accused decided to fight their fate.

The named criminals, however, were less singular in their response. Within the crowd, it was apparent enough who they all were, as the crowd parted and turned on the two other than Norring and Frenrik, who had been unfortunate enough to be amongst their numbers. Furius Acilius, the sole Imperial named among the alleged traitors, was quivering in disbelief. He was hardly the model Imperial in form or reputation; known for skipping duty and drinking on the job, the short and spindly man wasn't a well-liked man in the Legion. But even so, it was hard to imagine him orchestrating a catastrophe like this. As the balding man whirled around to look at his former allies and friends, broken laughter escaped his lips as the reality of it all set in.

"Damn you all!" yelled Furius, "Years of service, years of guarding your damned Lord's Mail, and what do I get? Gratitude? Of course not! I should have known you backstabbing, worthless excuses for Legion filth would stoop so low—"

During his ranting, the other accused legionnaire emerged from the crowd, a fellow Nord that Frenrik had only known from afar. Honthjolf was a loner by nature, and he was well-known throughout the garrison for being a rebel. The man Frenrik had known before always had a dark look in his eyes, but the Nord before the Legion now was a silent storm of wrath. Terror was palpable in the air as men and mer both recoiled from him as he made his way to Varus Vantinius with his broadsword unsheathed. Vantilius spared no time in readying his own stance, and for a moment, it looked like they were about to lunge at one another.

"Now wait just a minute!" said Alodie Jes, breaking the silence and jumping between the eye of the storm, "We've all bloodied ourselves in defense of this rock, that last thing we need to do is spill more."

"Tell that to the pig," snarled Honthjolf, "I won't see my honor sullied for his convenience. This is a sham and we all know it. True Nords would sooner die than—"

"Speak for yourself," said Norring, his grave voiced commanding far more presence over the collective throng than Honthjolf's or Furius' heated bickering. The Nordic giant had been silent until this point, quietly debating with himself about their situation. With a resigned look in his eye, he held out his war hammer to Frenrik, who blinked in surprise before accepting the heavy burden.

Under his breath, Norring whispered to him, "Take care of her, Battleborn."

Frenrik nodded, and Norring turned away from him to approach the three legionnaires in the center of the crowd. Midstride, he took one of the ash statues out of the crate and crushed it in his bare hand, letting the ash-like powder scatter in the wind. Everyone was silent as the warrior eyed each and every legionnaire in the crowd. No one wanted to provoke someone with his experience in battle. Fortunately, unlike the Imperial or Honthjolf, it wasn't anger that fueled Norring's decision.

"The only one sullying honor here is you, Honthjolf," said Norring, "We're all sworn to uphold the Emperor's justice, no matter what the circumstances. You can survive a few nights in a jail cell while this mess gets cleaned up—unless you have something to hide."

"You'll regret saying that, you damn son of horker," growled Honthjolf, eyes flashing dangerously.

"You're a good man, Norring, and a better warrior. Men, take him away," said Vantilius, motioning at a couple officers to lead Norring away. Norring nodded, and made no other reply other than to return Honthjolf's furious gaze with a stony glare of his very own.

It was at that moment, however, that Furius broke from the crowd and bolted for the garrison. Vantilius yelled for the archers to bring the Imperial down, but Furius proved to be quite agile despite his age and heavy Legion armor. Dodging arrows by weaving between the warehouses, he ran like a mad dog towards the reinforced stone walls of Ebonheart's keep and out of sight. Surely he must have lost his mind, Frenrik reasoned, for there was no escaping Hawkmoth from the interior—not unless the Imperial planned to plummet from the walls. Hysterical laughter about the Lord's Mail could be heard from the distance even after Furius vanished from sight.

Honthjolf took this sudden opportunity to swing with all his might at the distracted Knight of the Imperial Dragon. Steel rang on steel as Vantilius deflected the blow just in time, but chaos erupted from the rest of the legionnaires before their leader could regain control of the situation. The silver-armored knights of the legion were quick to descend on the traitor, but Honthjolf weaved himself through the disoriented crowd to throw off his pursuers. The lesser legionnaires, on the hand, were too crowded together to effectively respond to any sort of orders, and the situation deteriorated into a free-for-all brawl; some went for Honthjolf, some fled, and others still stood their ground out of duty or confusion.

Either from miscommunication or individual initiative, some of the men went for Frenrik. He blocked what he could with his new and unfamiliar two-handed weapon, but it was clear that none of these men wanted to take him alive. It was either them or him; a choice the loyal legionnaire was loathe to make under any circumstance. The scroll, now little more than a tattered slip of paper, still emanated in his hands, and he realized that it was his only chance at a clean escape.

Drawing back from the fighting as much as he could, he let the magical power flow into his mind. He'd never used magic before, but he remembered the final words of the Dunmer womer who had given it to him: pray. His first instinct was to run through the names of all the Divines, and even some of the more ancient ancestor deities of his native Skyrim, but none of them activated the dormant magic seeped in the scroll. It dawned on him that the scroll was likely tied to the Morrowind pantheon—the Tribunal.

The moment the thought crossed his mind, the scroll erupted into a shimmery blue cloud that engulfed him. A single, unbidden word pounded in his skull as the world melted away: ALMSIVI.

* * *

Trueborn Nords, as a general rule, don't use magic. Intangible powers were the ways of Greybeards or cheats, as far as Frenrik was concerned, with nothing in between. What exactly that made him now, he didn't know.

What he did know was that he had expected teleportation to be otherworldly, for lack of better words. He'd expected something like a creepy in-between realm, or at least some sort of gradual transition between casting the spell and arriving at his unknown destination. Instead, the entire world warped into new surroundings as a flicker of magical light surrounded him. The process was instantaneous and simple, yet even more jarring than he could have predicted—new sights, sounds, smells, and even temperatures crashed upon him all at once, momentarily shredding what little was left of his senses.

Before his eyes could adjust to his dim surroundings, musky incense permeated his sense of smell. It was a welcome change from the stench of decaying corprus flesh, but everything else around him was just as alien to him as the monsters that had invaded the Imperial outpost.

It was a temple, he was certain of that much. Carved out of what appeared to be one continuous block of sandstone, great alcoves and archways cast unsettling shadows throughout the dark round room. The only light came from candles that were haphazardly placed on and in between yellowish-orange shrines that dotted the perimeter of the room. In the center of the room was a large pit filled with bones and ash, and Frenrik could have sworn that an otherworldly murmuring emanated from it. No one else present seemed bothered by either it, in any case.

There were two Dunmer priests present, though neither of them gave more than a passing glance at the displaced legionnaire. At first he thought that they were the only living souls present, as despite the numerous shrines to Dunmeri saints, no one had come to worship at that hour. It wasn't until someone tapped his shoulder that he realized that not only was someone else was in the temple, but that his presence wasn't as unremarked on as he had thought. Whirling around with Norring's war hammer in hand, he couldn't tell who or what had touched him until his eyes adjusted to the dark.

It was a Dunmer womer. Her drab brown robes blended in almost seamlessly with the sandy composition of the temple itself, explaining why Frenrik had looked over her in his confusion. Her face was in a permanent scowl, though he didn't know whether it was because of him or simply because it was the womer's natural demeanor. Her piercing red eyes seemed to glow in the temple's darkness, however, and it was that very stare that made him realize that she wasn't just any Dunmer. She was the one that had saved his life twice over on the docks with her magic and her scrolls. For better or for worse, he owed a debt to the unhappy elf—but what possible interest could she still have in him?

"Put that oversized mallet down, you look ridiculous," said she, her voice sharper than a knife. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see that at least one of the priests was watching them now with a disapproving glare. Even in his rattled state, Frenrik knew that drawing the wrong sort of attention wouldn't do him any favors in avoiding the legion later. Seeing little choice in the matter, he lowered his weapon.

Perhaps seeing his unease at the attention they were drawing, the Dunmer's voice took a surprisingly soft tone. She tilted her head slightly and looked him over, only to sigh and mutter, "Not only are you ridiculous, you're as pale as a sheet of paper. Come, let's find somewhere that's a bit more comfortable."

Not knowing what else to do, he followed her lead. Taking no heed of the two priests, she led him through one of the large archways on either side of the main room and past another ash pit. Now he was certain that the ash was making some sort of supernatural noise, reminding him of ancient tales of bloody thirsty Dunmer ancestral ghosts. At least the draugrs from his homeland could be slain with steel, he thought, ghosts have no bodies to destroy. Ever proving to be his opposite, the Dunmer womer paid the noises no mind. Either the Dunmeri were accustomed to such things, or she had too much on her mind to pay it any attention. Frenrik didn't know which possibility made him more unnerved.

She slipped through a wooden doorway, one which he had almost overlooked in the temple gloom. She looked back at him expectantly, and he had no choice but to follow. The heavy door creaked as he pushed it open to follow her, the only harsh noise that dared penetrate the sacred grounds. It shut being him with a thud, leaving only silence between the Nord and the Dunmer.

The room itself was a small, but still welcome, change from the alien religion and architecture that permeated rest of the temple. It was obviously some sort of study, as it was well-lit and every available surface was cluttered with potions and books. There were two tables on either side of him, with a shelf positioned neatly between the two of them. Dull red tapestries depicting ancient Dunmeri ancestors lined the walls, and matching red rugs overlapped one another on the floor.

"No one but Eris uses this room, and he's off doing some chores," said womer, motioning him over for a chair. "Let's start simple. I'm Munamea. What's your name?"

"Frenrik," he said as Munamea dragged a chair from the other table over to join him. He could tell from the way she held herself that she wasn't used to this sort of conversation; her posture was stiff with tension, and she avoided direct eye contact with the Nordic warrior, as if he were some sort of unpleasant creature instead of a person.

Now that they were in stronger light, it was easy to see that his earlier observations about her expression hadn't changed. She still scowled, which only emphasized her regal cheekbones and a scar that ran down her cheek. Now that her hood was down, he could see that her blueish-black hair was pulled back into a no-nonsense ponytail, revealing a set of simple gold earrings on each of her ears. The man and mer couldn't have been more visibly different from one another.

"If it counts for anything," said Frenrik after several moments of uncomfortable silence, "The Order of Ebonheart slaughtered the bastards. If there's anything left alive, they'll be slaughterfish food before the day is out."

"As if that's any better?" said Munamea, "Vivec is a hop, skip, and jump away from your garrison. If anyone's bit by an infected slaughterfish, and there could a major corprus outbreak. It's only marginally better than one of those… things… crawling up into the sewers."

"Kyne's breath, a little gratitude wouldn't hurt," he snapped back.

For a moment her scowl intensified, but she bit back whatever her original retort was going to be. After taking a moment to rub her temples, she looked back up to him with her fiery eyes tempered by ice.

"Tell me, outlander, just what do you know about corprus?" said Munamea. His vacant look told her all she needed know.

"It goes beyond a few warriors in tin suits fending off some monsters," said Munamea, "The divine disease is seeped into the very sands of Red Mountain—most victims are hapless pilgrims or explorers that wandered too far past the Ghostgate during a sandstorm. Succumbing to corprus is more than coming down with helljoint or yellow tick; even the Three can't cure the infected. Dagoth Ur's evil knows no mercy.

"Relieving stalkers from their misery is admirable, yes, but don't pretend you outlanders have solved anything."

"Who's Dagoth Ur?" asked Frenrik, perking his head up. Names were good. Names could lead to the real criminals. Names could be killed.

"A twisted, immortal devil, and the eternal enemy of the Tribunal. He's not a daedra. If anything, he's more powerful than that—"

"Talos, when I came to this desolate rock, the worst I expected were drunken sailors and long shifts. Not incurable diseases or ghost fences or crazed immortals," said Frenrik, as he punched his fist into the table, "Keep your mumbo-jumbo and Dunmeri bogeymen to yourself, elf."

Munamea made no comment, but a quick disapproving glance told him all he needed to know about how she felt about his outburst.

As they sat in silence, he realized that he had been too harsh. Conversation was the art of the Imperials, but even he was smart enough to know when lines had been crossed. When it came to arguments with women, his only experiences were with that of Nordic blood—had he acted towards one of his kin like that, he'd have had a fist in his face by now, if not a sword. Like it or not, he knew in his gut that it'd be harder to find help once it was known that he was a wanted criminal—making the closest person he had to an ally hate him was a stupid move, and he knew it.

"Look, let's just forget about it for now," said Frenrik, realizing he knew nothing of Dunmeri etiquette, "You brought me in here for a reason, right?"

Munamea didn't answer him immediately.

"It's not uncommon to see adventurers or mercenaries teleport in while still hot with adrenaline," said she. She spoke carefully, as if guarding herself form more of his outbursts, "But I saw how you fought earlier. You were confident, and calculating. But here? I saw nothing but fear and uncertainty."

Frenrik nodded. He didn't like how she was eyeing him now. It was same way his brothers-in-arms had looked at him after Vantinius had named him traitor.

"There was—well, there was an incident just before I arrived," said Frenrik said, "The attack wasn't random chance. We found these red statues—"

He was cut off by a loud commotion erupting from the heart of the temple. Imperial voices could be heard barking orders accompanied by harsh Dunmeri objections. His heart sunk as he realized what was happening. The Legion might have valued brawn over brains, but it didn't take a genius to figure out that there were only so many places a magically incompetent Nord like Frenrik could have teleported. Between the native elves, the Legion battlemages, and the Imperial cult practitioners, it would only have been a matter of time before they found someone that could cast the same sort of spell and found him.

The thick door and walls muffled the exact words being shouted outside of the room, but even he could make out "Battle-born" and "traitor" without straining his ears. Mentally kicking himself for not making his way out of the temple when he still could, he glanced around the room once more, hoping for a hidden escape route. It was for naught, however, as there were no windows and only one door to the room—he was trapped.

Frenrik didn't notice the distorted warbling sound of a weapon being summoned until Munamea kicked the chair out from underneath him and slammed him into the ground. Caught off-guard by her sudden change in demeanor, he didn't have time to react as Norring's war hammer skittered across the floor. Daedric dagger in one hand and a readied spell in the other, she slammed her fist into his chest and released a yellowish-orange cloud over his body. Immediately, he felt his energy being drained to the point where he couldn't muster the strength to push the dark elf off of him. She drew her blade close to his throat.

"Now it's time for you to answer a few of my questions, Nord," she said.


	4. Political

**A/N: There's really no excuse for taking over** ** _six months_** **to update this story. Especially when I've had chapter four and five (and detailed outlines for chapters six trough ten) sitting on my hard drive since November. I can only offer my sincerest apologies for the delay, and promise that updates will be much more frequent from now on.**

 **On the upside, the updated version of chapter three is live! I'm much happier with the conversation between Munamea and Frenrik now, so I highly recommend anyone that hasn't already read the new version to go and do so. A huge thank you to those of you that critiqued the chapter in your reviews, it was invaluable information when I finally got around to fixing it.**

 **Finally, another massive thank you to everyone that's reviewed my work so far. If I didn't know that people liked the story, I don't think I could have found the drive to start writing again. Keep them coming!  
**

* * *

"Let's make one thing clear—the only reason that I haven't thrown that door open to your Imperial friends is because you might be useful. Try anything, and I'll make sure that not only will they find you, you'll willingly embrace prison life when I'm through," hissed Munamea. The daedric knife in her hand burned at his flesh—not through injury, but by the mere proximity to unholy magic.

He may have been trapped under whatever curse she had cast on him, but there was one clear exception to his paralysis: she expected him to talk.

Instead, he spat in her face.

It earned him a series of explosive swears and a backhand across the face. For several seconds, he was certain that she was going to continue her retaliation with cold-blooded torture. To his surprise, she did the opposite. With the lightest touch of her fingertips onto his cheek, a soothing sensation ran through the Nord. Frenrik didn't have to have any magical training to know that he was being charmed: his urge to resist her questions ebbed away, and he almost felt ashamed of himself now. Even without the spell, the harsh Imperial voices grew louder and angrier outside of the study's door, forcing him to accept that he'd have to survive this women's game if he wanted any chance of escaping, like it or not.

"I hope you've had enough fun, because I won't be sweet if you try that again—now, I'm going to ask only once: what are you hiding?" asked the Dunmer. She then whispered directly into his ear, "If you're involved in the attack or with the Sixth House in any way at all…"

"By Talos, I'm not!" said he, completely forgetting to keep his voice down.

She slammed her free hand over his mouth. The commotion outside hadn't quieted down, but the walls and sturdy doorway muffled everything happening on the other side. There was no way of telling who was out there, or how many were looking for him. This time, the thick walls had also worked to hide his outburst from his pursuers, but Munamea waited until she was absolutely sure that they were safe before removing her hand from his mouth. They both knew he couldn't risk it again.

"I swear," he started again, this time barely more than a whisper, "I had nothing to do with it. Someone—Oblivion take them!—shoved my name in a barrel stuffed with weird red statuettes, and suddenly the Legion's turned out for my blood. It may not make a lick of sense, but it's how it happened."

Munamea pursed her lips, and for a moment, he feared that she wouldn't believe him. The daedric knife still sheered at his throat, and her hold on him didn't falter for a second. She stared deeply in his eyes, as if judging some spiritual quality of the soul that only the ancestor worshippers of the Dunmer knew. Since it was all he could do, he challenged her with a glare of his own. Only after complete silence passed between the two of them did she give him the briefest nod and say, "I won't hesitate to kill you if you're lying."

It was best he could have hoped for, given the circumstances.

"Fine. Next question. The artifacts, where did they come?" asked Munamea, somehow making the question sound sharper than the death threat she'd given him moments earlier.

"Artifacts—?" asked Frenrik, but he immediately realized that she was talking about the red statuettes. He groaned in frustration. "Oblivion take you, woman, how would I know that?! They were in a crate left in a high-traffic shipping area! Anyone could have left them there."

They were both quiet again as heavily armored boots paced outside the doorway. As terror filled his mind, it seemed like his heart was beating so loud that it could have been heard back home in Whiterun. Never in all of his life had the Nord felt as weak or vulnerable as he was now. A single glance at Munamea, still straddling him, proved that she wasn't as fearless as she pretended to be, as she had broken into a nervous sweat. For all her threats and curses, she was just as scared as he. It wasn't until the footsteps faded that either of them dared to inhale a single breath of air.

"Do I have to spell it out? What ships used that dock today, idiot?" asked she, quickly masking any of the fear that had paralyzed her just moments before.

It dawned on him that her tongue lashings weren't just for intimidation. No, if that were the case, then she would have had nothing to fear about the Imperials on the other side of the door. For some reason, he could only assume, they wouldn't let her walk away from a confrontation unopposed. Normally, he would have mistrusted someone like that—especially someone that had already threatened to murder him—but now it he realized that it was one thing that could possibly win her back onto his side. There had to be some way to convince her that he was more useful to her free and alive, but how?

With a renewed focus, he took her question into consideration. The harbor hadn't been busy until just before the attack, and only two ships had docked at that particular pier: a trusted East Imperial Trading vessel, and the ship whose dock he'd used to save his own life: _Shor's Fury._

He hadn't given the aging Nordic vessel much thought at the time of the attack, aside from using it as a convenient escape route. The more and more he thought about it, however, the more suspicious it became. Smugglers were easily the most common criminal that Ebonheart legionnaires had to deal with, and they typically operated at the busiest times of day—it was awfully convenient that the cargo mysteriously appeared nearby exactly when the wharf's traffic had picked up, and that the crew of _Shor's Fury_ made themselves scarce immediately afterward. For that matter, it wasn't a familiar ship to him, nor was it associated with any company that he knew of off the top of his head. While he couldn't be certain of any wrongdoing, it was too shady to just be a coincidence.

"I want answers, Nord," said Munamea, her impatient eyes flashing an icy warning at him.

"Fine, fine—look, I can't say for certain, but there might have been smugglers on an old Nord ship involved, called _Shor's Fury_ ," said Frenrik. After a moment he quickly added, "Without the registry, I can't tell where it came from or who was on it, so don't bother asking."

Munamea looked surprised, though his assumption about the _Fury_ had a greater meaning to her than it had to him. She managed to narrow her eyes even more at him, and bit the nails of her free hand while thinking deeply. While she was distracted, he evaluated his situation. The paralysis spell she'd put on him had started to wear off, that much he could tell. At very least, he could wiggle a toe or two, and maybe even his fingers with concentrated effort. All he needed was a few minutes, and Frenrik was certain that he could overpower her as a last resort, assuming he could keep the element of surprise on his side. He still didn't know how he'd get out of the room afterward, but that was a problem that could wait until Munamea was dealt with.

Neither the man nor the mer had much time to ponder anything. They both had let their guard down, and now both regretted it. Someone now wriggled the doorknob from the other side of the door. Frenrik thought that it was all over for him then and there, until he realized that the door was locked. Munamea must be responsible, he thought, although he had no idea if she'd managed it through some crafty magic or simple trickery. It didn't matter, as the end result was the same: the lock gave them precious moments to figure out some sort of plan.

"What do you mean you don't know where the key is? We're looking for a dangerous criminal—break the damn door down if you have to!" barked a soldier from the other side of the door, destroying the small sliver of hope that whoever it was had simply been some innocent priest.

Munamea hadn't lost any time putting a plan of her own into motion. She jumped off Frenrik, and after taking a quick look around the room, decided to drag him under one of the tables. Her physical strength was clearly lacking as she struggled to move him inch by inch. The door, meanwhile, groaned and shuddered as someone pounded against it, as if they intended to beat it off its hinges. Under the stress, the door would undoubtedly break apart at any moment. The paralysis spell hadn't worn off as fast as Frenrik had hoped, and if a Legionnaire or two could easily overpower the both of them if it came to a fight. Against his better judgment, he sluggishly pushed himself along Munamea's lead, revealing the one edge he might have had against her before.

Munamea, to her credit, didn't seem surprised that he'd recovered some mobility. In another lifetime, he couldn't help but think, she would have made a decent commander—few could keep a cool head in a hopeless situation like the one they were in. At first, he didn't understand the rationale for hiding under the table, as it'd be easy to spot the fugitives at a single glance. As always, however, he hadn't accounted for magic.

When he was in place, Munamea quickly climbed on top of him, and cast one final spell on the both of them before the heavy door burst off its hinges. Munamea vanished before his eyes, and at first he suspected betrayal—until, of course, he realized that he had become invisible, too. As far as the world was concerned, the room was completely empty. Frenrik prayed to every god that he knew of for their ruse to remain undetected.

"Empty? Is this supposed to be some sort of joke?" asked a gruff voice in irritation.

Due to the limited vantage point, he couldn't tell if it belonged to someone he knew. The voice belonged to an Imperial man, he knew that much, which was hardly heart-warming. The Imperial and another soldier swept into the room, and their regulation Imperial boots confirmed their status as legionnaires. Every drop of Frenrik's Nordic blood screamed against staying still. Hiding was the coward's way—a real Nord would face down any foe regardless of the danger. In his heart, however, he knew that it was folly; after all, wasn't it the Nordic pride of his brethren that started the riot that he had to flee from to begin with?

Perhaps more importantly, the weight of Munamea pressing down on him reminded him that it wasn't just his life on the line.

He had no doubt there was more than enough room under the table for her to lay next to him instead, or she could have even slipped out of the room invisibly after the door had been broken in. But no, she had chosen to hide herself in the only way that they couldn't lose each other, even if they couldn't see one another. Her cheek brushed against his own, and neither of the two dared to move as much as an inch. Her heart pounded with every breath she took, so much so that he could feel it through his armor. It was bizarre to be so close to a complete stranger.

She shifted against him, perhaps trying to get a better look at the two legionnaires investigating the room. Whatever her goal, she immediately went rigid when they started talking. He almost wanted to find her hand to give it a reassuring squeeze.

"Damnit, all this time that wasted. He could have gone anywhere," said the clear leader of the duo. It was the Imperial with the gruff voice, and he had paced the entire room several times as he spoke.

For the hundredth time, Frenrik's blood turned to ice, this time as the man stumbled over Norring's war hammer. Both he and Munamea had forgotten it in the chaos. In a room of books and magical potions, the discarded weapon stuck out like a sore thumb. The soldier must not have realized the importance of what he found, though, as he kicked it aside while muttering another set of impressive swears.

"We've nearly the whole legion crawling the city. Unless the traitor's decided to take a swim, they'll find him," said another and much younger voice closer to the door. The young man paused for a moment, then continued, "If he's even here. That spell he used could have sent him anywhere."

That apparently was the wrong thing to say to the older man. With a yell of exasperation, he flipped the table clear over. With a resounding crash, the heavy wooden tabletop slammed the floor mere centimeters from Frenrik and Munamea's huddled bodies. Several potions bottles shattered onto the floor, and a nearby candlestick toppled over and extinguished itself. By some miracle, nothing had bumped or fallen over on the couple, so they continued to stay hidden in plain sight.

Frenrik finally had a clear view of both of the men. They were Imperials: the rampaging terror was a weathered yet beefy soldier on the cusp of middle age, and the other was but a teenager, probably a new recruit. Age and experience stood for not, as the older guardsmen had hardly finished his wave of destruction. The younger Imperial watched with a gaping mouth as his superior spun around to pull down the nearby shelves, shattering its contents all over the floor. The recruit trembled at every crash, but he was apparently too skittish to do anything to reign the old man in.

"You don't want to cause trouble, outlander," said a gravelly elven voice from outside of the room. The commotion had finally drawn the attention from exactly the wrong sort of people in the temple that day.

Frenrik knew one fact about the golden masked sentinels of Vivec: they were not to be messed with. Only now did he had a chance to see firsthand exactly why they had that reputation. Indeed, the threat in the Ordinator's warning hung in the air like an echo. The angered legionnaire was either too emotional or too confident to back down, and he stormed out of the room to confront the newcomer. The teenager grimaced, then followed his companion out. No one expected this confrontation to end well.

"Trouble? You lot, you're the trouble! With your damned heathen religion and incompetent—" shouted the legionnaire in an increasingly tight voice.

"Last warning, Imperial," said the Ordinator, cutting off the sputtering Imperial with an ice cold tone. "I promise you, the Empire won't be able to save you from the judgment of the Three."

The sound of steel scraping its scabbard was the only response that the officer gave him.

"Quick," whispered Munamea into his ear, "Can you move? The invisibility spell won't last much longer, and we won't have a better chance to get out of here."

She didn't actually wait for him to answer, instead opting to force him to his feet as best as she could. Despite his best efforts, he wobbled on his feet, but neither of them had the time to wait for him to adjust. Maneuvering around smashed furniture and dozens of books strewn about the room, he grabbed his weapon and made his way to the doorway as quick as possible. The argument outside had developed into a full-blown brawl as the older Imperial and the Ordinator exchanged harsh blows. The younger guardsman, to his credit, tried to intervene, but one left-hook from the elf was all it took to knock the poor boy out cold. Steel continued to ring out against metal, and a small circle of onlookers had started to form around the fight.

Curiosity overwhelmed him, and Frenrik had to stop and watch the developing fight. The older Imperial clearly had been taught in the standard Cyrodiilic fashion: his swings were straightforward, and mostly composed of striking forth from behind the safety of a heavy shield. The Ordinator, on the other hand, was utterly brutal. Using a wicked-looking mace, the Ordinator wailed on the Imperial without restraint—but there was more to his strategy than brute force, unlike Frenrik would have expected of an Orc or a fellow Nord. Because the Imperial had to spend so much time blocking the onslaught, he was easily worn down while the Dunmer figured out his opponent's weakest points and exploited them. But the Imperial himself was no stranger to battle, and adapted his defense just as rapidly as it was challenged. The struggle was more than a mere fight, it was an ideological battle.

As much as he would have liked to see how it ended, he was brought back to reality as someone tugged on his hand. Frenrik found him looking down at a very displeased Munamea. It took him a moment to realize that the spell had worn off—and if looks could kill, Munamea's glare could have eviscerated him thrice over. Without a word, she all but dragged him around the crowd to the temple entrance. If anyone noticed the legionnaire's and Dunmer's strange behavior, they didn't draw attention to it.

"I hope compromising your escape was worth the show," she hissed at him as they slipped through the entrance. The bright blue sky temporarily blinded Frenrik before his eyes adjusted to the sunlight—after everything that had happened, he had almost expected it to be nightfall. Instead, not even an hour had passed since the morning mayhem.

"Why do you care so much?" asked Frenrik, focusing back on Munamea and tightening the grip on his war hammer. He wanted answers. "You were the one threatening to hand me over to begin with."

"I didn't have to save you," said Munamea, "A thank you would have sufficed. And if you want to stay alive, then I suggest we start moving."

"We?" said Frenrik before he quickly added, "Thank you for the help—truly. But I'd had enough magic and elves to last me a lifetime, even when they aren't threatening me with spells or imprisonment."

"Are you stupid?" asked Munamea, motioning to the towering city before them, "That was just the beginning. This entire city is crawling with Ordinators and Imperial officers out for your blood. If you want to try your luck, be my guest—you'll be lucky if you last until morning."

He hadn't registered his surroundings as a city until that moment as he stopped to look around. At first, he thought he was looking at a series of hills. On closer inspection, he realized the massive triangular mounds were far too sculpted and uniform to be anything other than manmade—or in this case, mer-made—structures. Separated by canals, each "building," or canton, could have matched the size and scope of Ebonheart's own castle. Banners hung lifelessly from connecting bridges, and the only life he could see were that of patrolling guards. Everywhere he looked, he could see golden masks reflecting the high noon sun.

"Why should I trust you?" asked Frenrik, mulling his options over. He had hundreds of other questions, but he knew that every minute they spent out in the open was a minute too many. He didn't want to admit to her face that he already knew she was right, either.

"Trust? I should be the one questioning yours! All I have if your word that you're not a criminal, and you haven't been terribly convincing," said she, motioning him to follow her a tunnel that ran through the center of the temple building. He didn't doubt that there were guards nearby, so despite his unease, he followed her lead into the shaded cover.

"Fair enough," said Frenrik, "But I deserve to know what's going on."

Munamea sighed as stopped to look back at him.

"Do you think you're the only one affected by these events, outlander? The Temple has been fighting Dagoth Ur for centuries! If you're smart, Nord, you'll find the first boat off this rock and go home. Everything that happened today could just be a horror story you can tell your children someday."

"I'm not leaving until I find whoever set me up and return the favor," said the Nord. He nearly growled, "And you didn't answer my question."

"Are Nords also so impossible?" asked Munamea, "Don't answer that, I have a more important question. Are you certain that the information that you gave me about the ship is correct?"

"On my honor, it is," said Frenrik. Munamea nodded.

"I'll be blunt, Nord. I don't trust outlanders. I certainly don't want to trust you. But we're looking for the same people, and I can find out where that ship came from—and if it turns out you've been telling the truth, then we'll both have the information that we want. If you're lying, then I'll kill you, plain and simple."

"What's stopping you from leaving me to rot at first chance you get? Seems like you have everything you need from me," asked Frenrik.

"If you're telling the truth, then someone's manipulating the Imperial forces. In turn, if they or the Sixth House find you, they could force you to tell them about me," said Munamea, "And if you're lying and in alliance with them—"

"I'm not."

"—Then it's still in my best interest to keep an eye on you. I've giving you the opportunity to prove your worth, which is far more than you deserve. You can take the deal, or I can end you here and now."

Frenrik mulled over his possibilities. If Munamea started a fight, there was no way it wouldn't attract attention from the Vivec guardsmen, and he didn't even know if he'd be able to defeat a competent mage. Even if he could face her and win, she had the information that he didn't, nevermind the fact that he knew nothing about Vivec and the rest of Morrowind, significantly impacting his ability to pursue the true culprits behind the Ebonheart attack. Like it or not, he needed her.

"You have a deal," said Frenrik through gritted teeth.


	5. Criminal

**A/N; It's been almost two years since my last update. To be honest, I completely forgot about this fic until recently, when I through my old NaNoWriMo materials and rediscovered several rough drafts of this story. I can see why I stopped writing, I fucking hate dialogue heavy chapters. :'D**

 **For everyone who's faved, followed, and reviewed, here's hoping the wait was worth it.**

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When Frenrik was seven years old, he witnessed the largest manhunt in Whiterun history.

It happened in the dead of winter, when the nights were long and dirty snow covered the city. Soldiers flooded into the city with orders from the Emperor himself to find and capture a traitor connected to the dark conspiracies of Jagar Tharn. No one underestimated the fleeing criminal—every battle-hardened man and woman in the city were called upon to assist the Legionnaires, city guards, and battlemages while they turned the city upside looking for the criminal. It didn't matter than Tharn had been dead for nearly a decade; the black stain he left on the Empire had far from faded.

The Whiterun gates were blocked off for days. People whom Frenrik would consider future brothers-in-arms pounded on the homes of peasant and prestigious like, forcing their way into the private residences of citizens despite whatever protests they earned in the process. Even the Jarl agreed to let Dragonsreach be searched and secured by the zealous mob.

When they finally dragged the accused traitor out of a shabby Wind District hovel, the whole ordeal appeared to be an overreaction from the Empire. The criminal was a withered old man, his gnarled hands and dull eyes offered no resistance to his captors. Nonetheless, the ranking officer, a fiery Imperial woman built like a statue with a voice of iron, took no chances. With Nordic winds howling through the streets and light snow beginning to fall on the growing crowd, she executed the traitor on the spot. His blood froze before it hit the ground.

The manhunt marked the day when Frenrik realized the might of the Empire. The strength and efficiency of the Legion had been inspiring for the young child. Today, it made Frenrik afraid for his life.

The Nordic manhunt had been nothing but non-stop commotion between angry soldiers and the unhappy citizens they displaced. In contrast, Munamea and Fenrik's hiding place deep within the Puzzle Canals felt silent as the grave.

Frenrik cut away the leather straps holding his armor together. First came his gauntlets. Then, the helm and pauldrons. Piece by piece, he stripped away the only remaining evidence that he was an Imperial legionnaire. Metallic thuds echoed down the narrow canal passageways as he set each piece down on the sandstone walkway. Scuttling pests and dripping water served as their only accompaniment.

While he worked on his armor, Munamea wrung her robes out in silence several feet away, pausing only to set aside a few potions she'd stowed in the robe's pockets. Entering the canals necessitated wading through murky, waist-high water, and it drenched them both in the process. To his surprise, she'd been wearing a full set of pale chitin mail underneath the robes this entire time. The armor, while polished to a florescent sheen, appeared marred from years of use. A single well-placed strike could easily break the bug-like plating in two.

The rat-infested underbelly of Vivec's palace wasn't his first choice of a hideout, or even his second. Truth be told, he'd rather charge headfirst into Oblivion then stay in the tunnels for a moment longer than needed.

The tunnels were completely devoid of natural light; instead, a soft magical glow kept everything lit in an unnatural shade of pinkish blue, humming ever so slightly all around him. The sandstone walls must have been white once, but they'd since turned sickly yellowish-brown, and sporadic outcroppings of mold lined the walls and walkways. Piles of rat droppings and slaughterfish bones littered the floor around them.

"Allegedly, there's treasure hidden down here," said Munamea, "Perhaps there was, once. The Temple hasn't the resources to maintain these canals anymore."

Frenrik didn't look at her while he pulled his greaves off. "We can't hide in here forever, elf."

"We won't, outlander," she said, emphasizing the last word, "We need only wait until night fall. Then, we can slip into the cantons unnoticed… I hope you know how to swim."

Her words failed to reassure him. The entranceway Hall of Justice, the nucleus of all the Ordinators, sat between the Temple and the city proper. Before they fled into the depths of the Puzzle Canal, they'd nearly been caught by the swarm of Ordinators going in and out of their command—whether the uptick in activity was solely due to the presence of legionnaires, he could not say. The Legion could bully its way into the ancient Dunmeri city, but even an "outlander" like him knew the Legion had no legal power in Vivec without the Ordinator's say-so.

The duo sat in uncomfortable silence.

"If I ask you what your plan is, lass, would you actually tell me?"

"Subtlety still isn't a Nordic trait, I see," she said. "But it'll be hours yet before sunset, so we might as well get to know one another in the meanwhile. So, yes, Nord. I'll tell you a bit of my plan.

"It's simple enough; a friend of mine—whom I won't name, for now—in the city who has contacts in the… ah, less than legal side of importation. Don't look at me like that, Nord, I haven't the time or energy to deal with any lingering thoughts of honor on your end. You're a wanted man, now, you'll have to get your hands dirty if you want to survive."

"Slow down, lass," he said, "You're friends with smugglers? I'm an Imperial legionnaire, you can't just expect—"

"You were a legionnaire."

He glared at her, unable to deny the truth.

"Frenrik," she said after a moment, "There are many, many people in the underworld. Some of them just want to survive from day-to-day. Some want to grow rich beyond measure. Outlanders like yourself who can't handle being outcasts, Camonna Tong thugs, ash lander tribesmen desperate to escape the Blight. Some are the vilest scum in Tamriel, others would be heroes in another life. No matter how or why they pursue a life of crime, if you want to know what's happening behind the scenes, you have to know the people who are willing to break the rules."

"And your contacts will be fine with a law keeper in their midst, even one accused of treason? I think not, elf."

"Corruption in the rank and file isn't uncommon. Besides," she gestured to his discarded armor, "If you don't tell anyone, no one will know. If you spoke true, smugglers are responsible for the corprus monster attack. Smugglers, then, are who we should be talking to."

"Fine—fine, let's drop the topic and back up a bit, lass," he said, "Let's talk about you. You know what I am—an outlander, a Nord, a soldier. You Dunmeri, that's all you need to know to judge a person. But if you're expecting me to walk into a den of thieves without any regard for who's supposed to be watching my back, I want to know the type of mer you are. As you said, the underworld is filled with all types of people."

She sighed. "Fine, but first you need to do something for me."

"And what's that?"

"Address me by name. Not 'elf.' Not ''Dunmer.' And for the love of the Three, stop calling me 'lass,'" she said. He blinked at her, but she held his glaze and crossed her arms expectedly.

"It's… Munamea, right?"

"Indeed."

"Fine then," he said, "Munamea, would you tell me about yourself?"

"Better," she said, though her scowl stayed the same. With no change in her dry tone, she continued, "as I'm sure you've gathered, I'm a follower of the Tribunal. I have been in the Temple's service for the better part of a century, and I've lived in Vvardenfell since the island was opened to settlement. Settlement—ha! Not the word I'd use for it. I've seen the vulgarities that come with colonization. The Camorra Tong smuggling skooma out of their new farms, the Telvanni making their illegal cities in the wilds, slaves trying to escape from their masters, and cruel masters trying to bring back slaves without Imperial attention... Dealers in dwarven artifacts are a dime a dozen, not to mention worshippers of the Bad Daedra. Temple policy may be to bury ourselves in prayer and argue amongst ourselves, but only fools follow that advice."

"You're speaking very generally, la—erm, Munamea. I asked about you," he said, "Have you seen ant of this personally?"

She raised an eyebrow at that. "Yes, sometimes. Even if I didn't, though, what happens behind the Great Houses' stony façade is no secret. Surely you, an officer of the law, can't deny that."

"You're right," he admitted, "Every damn day, there's someone new to arrest, or some contraband to seize. That last thing we needed were these damn statues throwing a wrench into things."

She watched him rant with cold eyes. His words echoed throughout the canal, almost like a livid chorus singing in agreement. In the back of his head, he wondered why he only noticed the echoing now; the previous conversation hadn't echoed any than the lapping water. As soon as he noticed the echoing, however, the canals became eerily silent. Even the scuttling rats and dripping water felt muted now, completely unnatural for a place. Magic, he realized, magic had been warping the acoustics of the Puzzles Canals, just as It had lit them in turn.

"So, your contacts. how do you know them personally?" said Frenrik, trying to focus back on the conversation and off the unnatural ambience of the waterway.

"He's a contact, in the singular," she said while folding her robe, apparently unperturbed. "When I first came to Vvardenfell, I wanted to study the Blight. For a few years, no one thought too much of my studies—tracking down victims of the Blight and providing aid to the afflicted are all part of our typical duties. Apart from corpus, the blight can be cured through magic, or potions. For the past few years, the Blight has spread further and further beyond the Ghostfence—it's an open secret in the Temple that the Three are struggling to contain the evil within Red Mountain.

"Through my studies, I found myself in need of more resources than the Temple would have allowed, along with a banned book or two," she said, then sharply added, "Make no mistake, I'd never count myself among the Dissident Priests."

"Should that mean something to me?" he asked, racking his brain. Internal conflicts in the worship of the Divines was hard enough to follow, let alone the foreign and confusing Dunmeri religion.

"No—forget it. As I was saying, I needed supplies. Along the way, I met my contact. Singular. No 'den of thieves' as you suggested earlier, though I suppose we've met in a few cornerclubs which match that description. The contact, my friend, was a second-rate smuggler in hot water with the temple, and I needed a someone who could reach outside of Morrowind for the resources I needed. The more I learned about Dagoth Ur, the less and less I trusted my own kind—not that I trust outlanders any better now, of course."

"Why do Dunmeri hate outsiders so much, anyway? History isn't my strong point, but it's been centuries since your people warred with anyone, be it my people or anyone else, right?"

"Elves are long-lived, more so than men. Altmer have claim to firsthand experience of conquests of Tiber Septim, and the eldest of my kin aren't so far behind," she said, slow and thoughtfully, "It's funny, isn't it? I've never set foot outside of Morrowind. I know more about your people from the stories of Lord Nerevar than I do actual Nords. Maybe you should tell me more about yourself, too."

"Not much to say. Grew up in Whiterun. Ever heard of it?" he asked, and she shook her head, "Ah, that's a shame. It's a beautiful city, though it's seen better days. Spent my childhood running through golden fields, convinced I'd find treasure in every nearby cave or ruined fort. 'Course, I never found any—draugr and frost spiders, though, they were easy to find. My brother always fought them off for me, though. By Ymir's beard, we must have scared my mother to death on more than one occasion."

A new expression crossed Munamea's fae, one that he couldn't quite place. She seemed to be lost in thought, and her hard expression softened. Nonetheless, Frenrik didn't notice the change in his companion, and continued, "Joined the Legion as soon as they would have me, of course. My brother became a legionnaire when I was a wee lad, I wanted to be just like him. I served in Bruma for a few years, ended up reassigned here after pissing off the wrong commander's wife. Worked well for me until today."

"You, angering a woman? I'm shocked," she said coldly, snapping back to realty from wherever her thoughts had taken her.

"You've never met _this_ woman. She hated my guts from the first day I arrived."

"Maybe if I ever leave Morrowind, I'll look this fine lady up. She sounds like a kindred spirit."

They shot a look at one another, and Frenrik broke out into laughter while Munamea's mouth curved into one of her amused half-smiles. It felt strange to act so cordial around someone who pulled a knife on him only hours ago, but he needed a moment of brevity to distract him from everything that had happened that day.

"So, even if you can't tell me where we're going, how are you planning to reach your contact anyway?" he asked, leaning back against the canal wall, "You can't expect us to swim to him."

"That's exactly what I plan."

While she spoke, Munamea bunched her robes into a makeshift pillow. Frenrik raised an eyebrow at her, but she shrugged and pointed at the potions she'd set aside earlier.

"I'm out of magicka potions, and I spent most of my energy during the battle earlier. We have until nightfall before we can make our move. Not all of us are warriors with more brawns than brains; I need my sleep. –Before I forget, take this."

She tossed one of the potion vials at him, which he caught with ease. He narrowed his eyes while looking it over. The green bottle fit squarely in the palm of his hand, he figured he could drink its contents in a single gulp if he wanted to find out what it was.

"It's a pick-me-up from the Mage's Guild, you can see their seal on the label and everything. You don't have to trust me, but at least don't insult me," she said before he could open his mouth to ask her. She spoke a touch too sharply, as if she had anticipated an argument.

"No need to act paranoid," said Frenrik, surprised, "I wasn't going to insult you."

"No?"

"I'm aware you could slit my throat, dump my body in the waterway, and no one would ever find the body," he said, "Maybe poison works just as well, Munamea. Or magic. On the same token, I could do the same to you. I've been thinking about this the whole time we've been talking; if you must trust me in nothing but good faith, then the least I can do is do the same for you."

"That… wasn't the response I was expecting," she said, "Thank you."

"But that doesn't mean I'm going to nap the day away. Sleep if you like, I'll keep watch."

Before he could question she didn't seemed worried about his acting in bad faith while she slept, Munamea nodded and knelt before the waterway, murmuring to herself as if in prayer. The air around them shifted, the thick, muggy air turning cold to the touch. His skin crawled as the coldness drew into itself, and the air shimmered as magic whirled about a dark shape forming before them. Translucent mist molded itself into a tattered robe appeared, then a ghostly skull followed by ribs and arms. Bit by bit, the spirit of a dead Dunmeri manifested between them, staring at the Nord through eyeball-less sockets and grinning with fleshless teeth.

"Enjoy your watch," she said, sounding almost cheerful before she lay herself down.

He would not need her potions to stay awake that night.


End file.
